


true romance

by hupsoonheng



Series: Nuclearstuck [12]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Fight Sex, Hatesex, M/M, Oral Sex, Xeno, Xenobiology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:50:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the tale of when <s>harry met sally</s> dave met gamzee, involving a fight club, casual carjacking, and a midnight run to the pharmacy for embarrassing sex supplies</p><p>prequel to fight club</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i was saving this for later but then i found out i could reorder fics in a series so here it is! i'm up way too late wow good thing i have tonight off but i'm still gonna have to not sleep very much to make sure my sleep sched stays on track :( oh well!! worth it, this has been sitting in my notebook for ten thousand years sans the nsfw scene

You don’t notice him, not really, the first time you see him in the dim, unfinished basement in Staten Island, but you blame that later on the sweat and blood in your eyes that night. You had a good long streak before exhaustion made you tap out, a solid seven consecutive wins. The other fighters are calling you The Albino, like this is some cheesy-ass prize fight in the thirties. You let them. 

The second time you see him, you can’t help but notice because he’s across from you in the makeshift ring of bodies, human and troll alike. He’s a magnificent specimen of a troll, really, long candy corn horns twisting up like a demon’s. He’s definitely over seven feet tall without them, maybe a solid eight. You can see the strength in his hands and arms, and you don’t doubt there’s muscle to match under that soft pudge over his stomach. It still kind of freaks you out how trolls have no navels, no nipples. 

Still, you figure anyone who comes to a fight in fucking _clown makeup_ has got to be one hundred percent chump, so you take it easy on him to begin with. You tell yourself it’s just a warmup with some amateur wannabe-badass. 

Less than three minutes later you find out how wrong you are about this actual badass, tapping out because it feels like a rib is broken and like _fuck_ are you gonna risk puncturing a lung or something out of pride. 

Most fighters don’t give out their names down here, but you find out his name is Gamzee Makara, a hyena from New Alternia 5 in Newark who doesn’t give a shit who knows it. That explains the Hulk-like strength and monochrome clown paint. You also find out that the rib isn’t broken, just bruised deep, and you feel like a pussy for giving up so quick last night. 

So you head straight for the fight club the very next night after work, ribs still aching where his fist connected like a wrecking ball. 

“Oh, you back, motherfucker?” he breathes with a malevolent grin as you step into the ring and square off. “You gonna throw in after not even five minutes this time, too?” 

“Nah, see, last night I got so nauseous looking at your ugly face I had to tap out before I made a bad mess outta my lunch on the floor, here,” you shoot back with a defiant jut of your chin. “So today I made extra goddamn sure to eat light so I could deal with looking at you, Hatchet Face.” 

“You like words a whole fuckin’ world of a lot, huh?” Gamzee says with a little nod. “Let’s put that pretty fuckin’ kisser outta commission and shut you but all the way up, then, brother.” And he lunges forward before you can even quip back about him finding you pretty. . 

When it comes to this huge-ass troll, all your training with your big brother doesn’t make much of a difference. You hit your adult height of six one when you were barely fourteen, so you didn’t get much training in how to deal with larger opponents. To be honest, you didn’t really expect to ever need that training as an adult, even against trolls—most trolls you’ve met have never had more than a couple inches on you. The only advantage you have, you figure, is that you’re fast and he reeks enough of weed when he brushes near that you figure he’ll be slowed down. You dodge—but he catches you with one long arm anyway, around the waist to slam you down fast and hard, concrete raw on your shirtless back. 

You’re winded, but this time you do manage to get out of the way when he drops to pin you. “Is that all the fuck you got?” you crow as you roll back to your feet. “Yo, my _grandma’s_ faster than you, and she’s dead!” 

“I’m gonna make it a family reunion, then,” Gamzee laughs, and with the way his claws flash out in a yellow blur to rip across your abdomen, you almost believe him. You’re bleeding and sore but you don’t pull a single fucking punch now, pulling his legs out from under him after his fists in your back hammer you to the floor. You pin him before he can move again, pressing down with all your weight so you can get the rest of your body on top of his. He looks up at you with the most intense purple eyes, which you think you read are a sign of blood color. You don’t get in much more time to think about it, though, because even after two of your punches smear his unsealed makeup, he still manages to curl up and head butt you so hard you go toppling backwards off his waist. 

You last another solid five minutes before Gamzee lays you out so hard your vision goes dark for a few seconds. In those few seconds you’re not even sure where you are anymore. 

You have to be dragged upright by two other dudes to get out of the ring, but you shrug them off once you’re in the safety of the crowd. You should really be going upstairs to tend to the myriad of injuries Gamzee’s inflicted on you, but instead you stay and watch his next match. A blueblooded bruiser steps up, barely taller than you, but making up for it in sheer breadth and musculature. Female trolls you’ve seen often seem to go out of their way to appear feminine, probably because trolls are all basically built the same, and this one has a well-coiffed high bun and pretty red lipstick, so you want to guess they’re a girl troll. You’ll go with that. Either way, she lasts about a minute less than you did before Gamzee pounds her into the ground. 

You think you might be aroused when he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders post-victory. 

The stabbing pain of your injuries fades to soreness as the night wears on. Gamzee lasts a jaw-dropping twenty short rounds—the animalistic roar he lets out by the end of his tenth round might be the biggest turn-on you’ve experienced in years—before he taps out to another hyena, though it looks like it’s more out boredom and just being kind of tired than flat out exhaustion or pain. (You can’t tell if he’s faking.) By then it’s past four in the morning, and most of the fighters have left, or are leaving now. Gamzee is one of the last to head upstairs, and you jog up behind him. 

“You’re some kinda monster, you know that?” you say as you catch up to him. 

“You still here, motherfucker?” Gamzee says as he glances down at you. “I put you in the ground but hours ago.” 

“So call me a zombie,” you return with a thrust of your chin. “You on something? Or you just naturally mean?” 

“I’m the meanest motherfucker you’ll ever meet, probably,” he says with a thoughtful scratch of his jawline as he reaches the top of the stairs. “Go home, li’l man.” 

“Nah, I think I’m gonna have more fun bugging your ass,” you say, still trailing close behind him. “You’re from the NA5 district, right?” 

“Do I look like I’m not?” he growls, but you don’t feel the threat. 

“Yeah, you’re right, you’re about ugly enough,” you grin up at him. 

Gamzee pauses in the hallway, where you almost bump into him, and regards you with a frown. “Are you motherfuckin’ hitting on me?”

For a moment you’re astounded at this troll’s near-clairvoyance before you remember trolls have that weird hate-romance shit, which means your every jab, verbal or otherwise, could be construed as flirting with the right tone and insistency. Trolls are fucking weird. 

“Why yes the fuck I am,” you say, changing tracks as it suits you. Sure, you just wanted to tease him into wanting to get to know you, but it’s not like he didn’t turn you on before, and even outside the ring he’s got some kind of axe-faced, dangerous appeal you could be all about, given the chance. “The fuck you gonna do about it?” 

“What am I gonna _do_ about it?” he parrots back, staring at you. “Not a whole lot, I guess, what with me bein’ not interesting even a little bit with no kismesissitude with a human.” 

“A what with a human?” He’s already turning away, though, and you grab at his sleeve. “C’mon, man, I’ve been with trolls before.” He just looks at you until you admit, “Okay, one troll. But still!” 

“And just what blood color was this one troll?” Gamzee asks. 

“Yellow, but what’s—”

“And what’s your name?” 

“My name? What—”

“Your name, motherfucker!” he demands, baring his teeth mere inches from your face. 

“Dave Strider, you nosy piece of shit!” you shout back, flustered and confused. 

“You can’t fucking handle me, Dave Strider,” he snarls, suddenly all around you as his hands hit the wall above your head, his body caging you. 

“Fucking try me,” you spit, craning your neck forward until all you can really see are his eyes. “I can take a whole lot more than whatever you think I’m capable of.” 

That makes Gamzee laugh, full-throated and throwing his head back. “I ain’t tore you up enough tonight, huh? Alright, you little shit, I’ma take you home but this one time.” 

You can’t believe how fucking giddy you feel as you follow the troll out to the street, where there are a few drivers still getting into their cars to go home. Everyone else has either driven away already, or dispersed to the handful of bus stops in the neighborhood. Gamzee strides over to a man still fumbling his keys, one of those dumping office workers too scared to ever really fight. 

“You goin’ across the Verrazano?” Gamzee asks as the man cranes his neck (way) up to look at him. 

“Yes?” the little man squeaks, and Gamzee motions you over. 

“Good, then you’re goin’ our way,” he tells the man, with a big shark smile before glancing at you. “Yo, your place or mine?” he asks as he leans on the hood of the car. 

“I don’t think you’ll fit,” the man stammers quietly, shrinking into himself when Gamzee turns blazing eyes on him. 

“Yours,” you chime in, and your unwilling chaffeur looks at you in horror, like he expected human solidarity or something. 

“So open up the fucking car, little man,” Gamzee says, jiggling the handle of the back passenger door so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t just tear right off. “Don’t worry, I won’t give you a new sunroof.” He wedges into the back seat after you, back window on your side rolled down so his horns can hang out them like some kind of misplaced set of chariot spikes. 

It turns out that Gamzee lives all the way up in Kingsbridge, which is the nicest neighborhood you’ve ever heard of a troll living in. The driver fucking whimpers the way way, getting louder with every passing mile. “I live in Kew Gardens,” he whines at one point, but all that gets him is a short bark of a laugh from Gamzee. 

You feel kind of sorry for the man when Gamzee’s horn still clips the ceiling of his car, leaving a little rip in the felt or whatever it is, and you drop a ten dollar bill on the front passenger seat as you depart. When he catches your eye you just shrug, and then mouth _I’m gettin’ my dick wet!_ The driver goes red-faced and shoves you out of his car, and you barely have time to shut the door before he speeds off. 

Gamzee’s apartment is a fucking mess. There are empty Entenmann’s pie tins and Tropical Fantasy soda bottles everywhere, and the most enormous bong you’ve ever seen actually in someone’s possession sitting on the coffee table. All the furniture is cheap, despite the niceness of the apartment itself, like it was dragged in off the streets after a rainstorm or something. He pulls you straight to the bedroom without even offering a drink or something, and throws you onto the bed. 

You actually haven’t gotten laid, haven’t even made out since you and Sollux ended your intermittent little fling, and watching Gamzee tear off his shirt as he approaches the bed makes your dick twitch. There’s a nervous flutter in your stomach, too, because god _damn_ you’re out of practice, not to mention you’ve got literally no experience with this hatesex shit. For all you know you’ve signed your own death warrant with your penis. 

“You sure you know what you signed up for, motherfucker?” he chuckles as he kneels between your legs, tugging at your belt buckle. “I shouldn’t even be warning you, but for you I can up and make a special case, being a dumbass human.” 

“I’m pretty sure I just wanna see you like you were in the ring tonight, except re-enacted in your fucking bed,” you retort, sitting up to peel off your own sweaty shirt. “That’s what turned me on, jackass.” 

“Oh, so, you’re saying what you want is for me to reopen,” and he drags his claws lightly over the cuts on your stomach, “what wounds I already gave you? You want me to get your nasty-ass human blood all over my sheets, motherfucker?” You shiver when those fingers come to rest on the waistband of your underwear, toying with it. 

“That’s the shit I want, yeah,” you murmur in return, reaching up for one of his horns and yanking him down by it, which he didn’t see coming by the way he grunts about it. “I want you to fucking flay me, how about that?” Why the fuck are you saying these things? You’ve never been masochistic in your life, but shit, if it means getting to see this asshole in all his naked glory you guess you’re game. “I mean... Okay, I do have one question.” 

“Just the one, huh?” He smirks and sits back on his heels. 

“Like, we’re not just gonna rehash our fight, right? Like... Your whole hate-romance thing _does_ involve sex, right?” You lick your lips and swallow, trying to keep steady eye contact. 

“You think I’m gonna bring you all the way back to my place and _not_ fuck you?” Gamzee at first just looks stunned, and then he throws his head back like before to let out a huge guffaw. “Bro, you may be the most irritating piece of shit to ever step into the same ring as what I did, but you’re a hot piece of ass, for damn sure. Come the fuck here.” He doesn’t waste any more time, leaning down to catch you in a kiss. 

Gamzee’s kisses are unlike any other you’ve experienced. He’s brutal, razor sharp teeth catching and tugging on your lips when his tongue pushes past them into your mouth. To call his kissing “insistent” would be to downplay the urgency with which he presses against you. His hand that isn’t supporting his weight is already working its way into your pants, still outside your briefs—and then he squeezes a little too hard, and you yelp into his mouth. 

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ , I know I said I wanted you to inflict some kind of pain on me, but _not_ there,” you say as you grab his wrist and pull his hand out. “Anywhere but there, I swear to fuck.” 

He frowns. “I was just givin’ your bulge a little squeeze is all that was.” 

“My—dude, wait, you were making fun of me for possibly having never been with a troll before, and you’ve never been with a human?” 

“I told you, I ain’t never been interested before. Count yourself _special_ is what I’m telling you.” Gamzee just shrugs, sitting back. 

“Look, you dense motherfucker. Look, with your special eyes. This,” you say as you shove both pants and underwear down to your thighs, “is my cock. You do not squeeze this shit like a stress ball, and you _especially_ do not ever squeeze my balls, ever, do you understand?” 

“What’re you, made of mo’fuckin’ gossamer?” Gamzee snorts. “So what in fuck _can_ I do to it?” 

“Gimme your fucking hand. Gimme—” When he doesn’t make a move, you lean over in exasperation and grab his hand, wrapping it around the shaft of your dick. “You should be glad the first human you’re with is me, being uncut and also just an easy lay in general,” you say, bracing one hand on his shoulder as you put your hand over his and start pumping like you’re just jacking off. “See? You don’t have to try and choke the fucking life out of it.” At first his hand stutters along under yours, herky-jerky movements that feel more weird than good, but then he gets the rhythm of it and you can let go, grabbing his other shoulder. 

“That’s all it takes?” he says with a derisive snort. “It feels weird as shit, you know that? All rigid and not moving even a little bit.” 

“Yeah, well, it likes you too, honey,” you hiccup, thrusting into his hand without even meaning to. “Shit, I didn’t think I’d be dealing with some kind of virgin, here.” 

“Virgin? Oh, bruh, no,” Gamzee laughs, and before you know what’s happening your world is spinning, ending up with Gamzee on his back, pillows just behind his head, and you between his legs. You try to shake off the vertigo as he laughs some more. “I ain’t hardly a virgin, just because I can’t classify what kinda alien features you got hanging betwixt your legs there. I know what’s up now. You ain’t got no worries to be had anymore.” 

“Yeah, sure, we’ll see how you feel about that when you find my asshole,” you mutter, but he doesn’t seem to catch that so you just kick off everything south of the waist. When you’re finally naked you look up to see Gamzee lazily undoing his own fly, and you slap his hands away. “Nuh-uh, I wanna do that.” 

“I ain’t given you that kind of permission over my doings,” Gamzee growls, and you just growl in return, which surprises him into laughter. He tucks his hands behind his head, and you yank his pants down under his ass. 

The setup is familiar, even if you’re a little rusty; there’s the sheath just above the nook, and you smile as you remember the first time you saw one of these. “Holy shit, you have a pussy,” you whisper, just a quote from your own past, but Gamzee doesn’t know that and he knees you in the face. 

“The fuck did you call it?” he asks as you push his thighs back apart, fingers trailing lazily around his sheath, from behind which his bulge is already peeking out. 

“I didn’t say a word,” you lie, before putting your lips around the tip of his emerging bulge and sucking. Gamzee yells at first, calls you a hypocrite before he realizes you’re not trying to fucking bite his bulge off. The difference you find between this highblood fucker and Sollux is that Gamzee is a few degrees cooler, still warm enough to pass for living but just barely, though his junk heats up with arousal. His nook has a lot less texture than your ex’s, when you investigate with a single exploring finger, and tighter too, but it’s like nature knew it had to make up for that somewhere, because when you coax his bulge out all the way it’s way bigger, and ridged like a goddamn high-end sex toy. You bite gently at the underside with your blunt human teeth, and Gamzee hisses before you kiss it better. 

“Yo, Makara,” you begin as you come away from biting his inner thigh, “how would you feel about fucking me?” Your fingers play over the ridges, and Gamzee looks at you with skepticism laced with lust. 

“I thought you were the type of human ain’t got no nook,” he says, eyes rolling back a little as you suck on the tip of his bulge again. 

“Well, technically, you’re basically right,” you reply as you let it fall back out of your mouth. “But I know trolls can’t be immune to the charms of the ass, right?” 

At that Gamzee balks, staring directly at your hips like he’s got x-ray vision through to your ass. “You want me to put my bulge up your _ass?”_

So much for the charms of the ass. “I mean,” you say as you bump the head of your cock against the slit of his nook, “I could always fuck you, instead, I just thought the other way around would present better opportunities to, as you so eloquently put it, ‘tear me the fuck up,’ you hear me?” 

The motherfucker actually looks torn for a few moments, and you feel like you ought to be listening to elevator music with the way he’s got you on hold before suddenly he’s flipping you off the bed. This whole hatesex thing is still new to you, so as you orient yourself on the floor you figure you’ll just have to wait to find out whether this is another form of affection or if you did something wrong. 

“You gotta get one of those things, then, if it’s my bulge you’re wanting up your goddamn waste chute, you fuckin’ oinkbeast,” Gamzee says from up on the bed, and you hoist yourself up by the edge. 

“One of those things?” You blink rapidly with confusion. “What fucking ‘thing’ are you talking about, you lunatic?” 

“You know, that shit that cleans human asses out. For like, doctors and shit.” He actually mimes squeezing an enema bulb, which is not anything you ever expected to see in a sexual context. “I ain’t stickin’ my bulge just goddamn anywhere.” 

“What makes you think I own a goddamn enema?” you scowl, watching your erection give up and die. “Don’t trolls have condoms?” 

“What makes you think there’s a goddamn prophylactic gonna be able to contain this motherfucker?” Gamzee cackles as his waving bulge curls gently around his fingertips, and you have to give him that, really, fair point. Looking at it makes you lick your lips again; you don’t think you’ve ever wanted something in your ass so badly, even if it’s attached to possibly the most annoying bedmate you’ve ever had. 

“Fine,” you say as you grab your pants off the floor, foregoing underwear to just yank them on. “Fine. Where’s the nearest pharmacy?” 

The next thing you know you’re in fucking line at the nearest Rite Aid, enema kit in hand, trying not to tap your foot too fast. The tired-looking girl at the register doesn’t give you more than a passing glance, and you suppose maybe your cause is aided by the lack of condoms in your purchase—or maybe she’s just too tired to give a shit, and too used to weirdos. You try to broadcast a general thought that no, this is definitely not being bought so a troll you barely know can stick his living dildo of a tentadick up your ass, your ailing grandpa just really needs this and you are the only grandchild with a tender enough soul to volunteer for this terrible job. That’s really what this is about. 

You fucking race back to the apartment. You can’t believe this is still real, that Gamzee is still naked and waiting, that he’s been fucking playing with himself the whole time like he’s keeping himself ready, and most of all you can’t believe you’re squatting naked in a stranger’s tub trying to figure out how to give yourself a goddamn enema. You find out later you’re lucky you figured out quick to just use water and not whatever it actually came filled with. 

You feel kind of empty and weird in back when you step back into the bedroom, and you’re not sure about this anymore. You close the door behind you, waiting for the mood to come back, because it sure feels like your little excursion that took like, forty five fucking minutes, sure killed the fuck out of it—and then Gamzee is behind you, biting at your neck like a goddamn vampire as he pulls you close by the waist. 

Blood runs down your chest in little warm rivulets, Gamzee lapping at the wounds he put there in the first place before he just picks you the fuck up with one arm looping under your ass. By the time he tosses you back onto the bed you’re half-hard, and it doesn’t take much more of Gamzee’s scary-huge bulge teasing against your asshole to get you up to full mast again. His teeth are everywhere, from your neck to your chest to your thighs, and you’re going to be scabby and sore tomorrow, especially when his claws splay one of your fight injuries open again, but right now it doesn’t fucking matter. Even if you’d gotten laid every fucking day between your last time with Sollux and tonight, you swear to god this is the best sex you’ve had in a million years. 

Gamzee is fucking huge entering you, but the magic of troll junk is it’s like it was engineered just to fuck an ass between the shape and the self-lubrication, so there’s no fingers wiggling up your ass, just a troll inching forward into you. You had to slow him down at first, telling him if he blew out your fucking sphincter he was going to have to pay the hospital bills to get that fixed (if it _could_ be fixed, which you don’t even wanna think about), and it looks like he got the message. 

When he’s in to the hilt you find it hard to breathe, huffing and puffing in erratic spitty bursts, and you pull him down by the hair to kiss him sloppy and rough with no care at all for where his teeth go. “Fuck me _raw_ , hyena,” you whisper when you break off, and he just grins. 

Okay, so you let Sollux in your ass once or twice, and it was definitely fun. You found out that trolls have kind of a different way of fucking, not so much with the thrusting as they are with the grinding and with their tentacle genitalia just slapping itself all around the insides of the receiving partner. Hell, it was bound to be different from other trolls no matter what with Sollux’s bifurcated bulge. You just still weren’t prepared for the sheer size and strength of Gamzee’s bulge, and it’s not like it’s perfect fantasy sex wherein your prostate is like a doorbell that gets rung every few seconds but shit, he comes close. 

You gasp and grapple at Gamzee’s shoulders as he fucks you, your legs wrapped around his waist when you realize they’re kind of up in the fucking air. At one point his bulge gives a particular violent thrash inside you that just makes you feel sore rather than good and you punch him square in the jaw, which makes him growl and leave a bloody bite mark all around one of your nipples. 

Your orgasm leaves you so wiped out you feel like you just got punched out by Gamzee again, and you come back just in time for Gamzee to come in your ass, purple fluid spilling out onto the sheets you’re glad aren’t yours. 

In the end you don’t leave until morning, spending the night sleeping around the wet spot with Gamzee clutching you in a bizarrely possessive way to make you little spoon. (You’re fucking _never_ little spoon.) When you wake up he’s actually still holding you, which is new, and when you leave he gives you his chumhandle so you can stay in contact. He says he wants to do this again, and you tell your dick to calm down because you can’t deal with another round of Gamzee just yet. 

Your dick ends up winning that argument, though. 

You already took the day off from your job at Applebee’s to give yourself a day of recovery from fighting, but you’re doubly glad you did now that you have to recover from Gamzee, too. As soon as you get home you limp over to your laptop and open Skype. As luck would have it, John is currently online, and you let the call ring as you kick off your shoes. 

John doesn’t take long to pick up. “Wow, you’re actually _calling_ ,” he snorts while the video takes its sweet time connecting. “Is someone dying?” 

“The complete opposite,” you reply, despite the groan the escapes you as you shift. Gamzee’s claw marks across your belly weren’t deep enough to need stitches, but he surprised you before bed last night with a roll of gauze, forcing you to let him tend to your wounds. It’s still sore, though, in addition to everything else he made sore. 

“Did, uh...” John appears on your screen, looking pensive. “Oh! Someone gave birth?” 

“It’s not a fucking riddle, John, Jesus Christ.” You lay yourself along the couch completely, sticking the laptop on the coffee table. “Fuck, I’m so sore...”

“Is that a black eye?” He leans in, squinting. 

“Well, yeah, but more important than that,” you say as you touch your eye with a wince—it wasn’t a bruise last night, and you’re not even sure when he did that, “is that I met someone last night.” 

“Haha, wow, he didn’t give you that, did he?” John is definitely joking around. You’ve known him long enough. 

“Well no, he did, and that’s sort of the point,” you say with another little grunt of pain. “He’s fucking amazing, John.” 

“Met him how, in a goddamn bar fight? Did he say hello with his fist?” John scoffs. 

“No, at those basement fights I go to, you know,” you reply with a wave of your hand. “He knocked me out cold—”

“Knocked you _out?”_

“Look, I wasn’t daisy fresh, alright? He hit me so hard the night before last I thought he broke a rib.” You pull a face. “I went to his place last night, and okay, I know you don’t wanna hear the details,” you add as John’s features twist with displeasure, “but like, holy shit!” A smile breaks across your own features as you just _think_ of last night. Oh, and of this morning, but maybe John doesn’t need to hear about that one. “Fuck, I think I’m in _love._ ” 

“That’s a little quick, don’t you think?” John asks, his apprehension clear in both his voice and face. “I mean, look, I’m not trying to judge—”

“Yeah? You’re not doing a great job on that front, Egbert.” 

“I’m just saying! You’re telling me you’re like, falling in love with a dude who hit you hard enough to break your ribs!” John yells, hands shooting up. 

“Not just any dude, dude, a _troll_ dude,” you correct him. “Fuck, John, he’s like eight feet tall. I’m swooning so hard I’m gonna need another couch up in here. Just like, pack my apartment full of couches so I always have a place to swoon onto.” You pause, reprocessing John’s words. “And I said _almost_ broke my rib, singular, not that he actually did.” 

“It’s not like you haven’t been totally self-destructive in the past, okay? That’s all I’m trying to say here.” John’s gone quiet. “Or don’t you remember a couple years back?” 

“That was different and you know it,” you sigh. “I was incredibly fucked up back then.” You don’t add that John was a major source of that—he knows, and honestly you don’t need to rehash that. Ever the fuck again. 

“Yeah.” John glances down, fucking twiddling his thumbs. 

“Listen, I’ve got to rest the fuck up, this dude tore me the fuck up and no lie,” you say, already moving your cursor over the end call button. “I’ll hit you up later, alright man?” 

“Yeah, late—” You click a little too early, but you’re a little too tired to care. Of course, you’re not too tired to antagonize Gamzee online, and it looks like he’s trying to hit you up on Pesterchum already. Who knew this would work out so well?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah as always comments, feelings, critique, questions, all of these and more are totally welcome and encouraged because what a great thing to come home to after ten hours at work! and because i have to be honest certain comments have been wholly responsible for the series getting much bigger than originally intended so, hey your comment could be that next comment! 
> 
> yeah i'm p tired wow goodnight


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D --> Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha WELL work has been kicking my ass again but luckily i got three nights off in a row, even if it took me the first two nights to complete this chapter because most of it wasn't written, i was just very excited to finish it off
> 
> also there's lots of new fanart on the nuclearstuck blog on tumblr so you guys should check that out if you haven't already!

The ride to the district always feels fucking interminable. You don’t hardly fit in these goddmn trains built for humans, who almost never reach even close to your height, so when you can’t intimidate someone out of their seat you have to hunch down with bent knees and a pissed off face. Lately it’s worse because your goddamn piece of shit earbuds went out in one ear and you haven’t had the time to stop at Duane Reade and get some new ones. 

Your main reason for coming back is business. There’s not a lotta ways a hyena like you can make an honest buck, so you make yours dishonestly. Sure, it’s 2011 and the wrigglers are still dying of like, fucking, dysentery and shit, but you and some other purples got some sweet agricultural action going on in a remote corner of New Alternia 5. Every so often you come home—back, goddammit, _back_ , this ain’t your home anymore—to pick up some more product while you drop off some profits. Money doesn’t do a whole within the district itself, but give that shit to another troll living on the outside and suddenly you’ve got a whole bunch of so-called contraband, electronics, nice food, shit you’d never find in the ration crates. Suddenly maybe a few less trolls die, maybe a few more young guns get better educated and get out sooner. 

That, and it gets the gardener-type trolls what they need to nurture a damn fine cannabis plant. The shit is sticky and pungent, so much so you’ve had customers swear they got high just having it in their cars. It’s mean to be strong enough to give an adult highblood a real nice high; for your average human buyer, it means a little trip to pot coma land, and that’s what keeps the motherfuckers coming back. You admit you dip into your own stores, too, because that shit is delectable as fuck. 

You like to take your visits when Nimius is on duty at the gate, because he’s the happiest dumbshit you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. He doesn’t check for a goddamn thing, just leans over his desk to clasp your hand like he’s about to arm-wrestle you and greets you with your name and a smile. He doesn’t even have to be paid off. 

You head to Nelena’s pad out in the southwest corner. The district is fucking huge, but there’s no transportation in here besides some jacked up bikes here and there. You don’t do bikes. Unlike most other trolls around here, Nelena’s got a little house all to herself, from which she conducts all the business concerning NA5’s finest crop. When you get there she’s already waiting outside, leaning against the side of the building and smoking a storebought cigarette. 

“Little bit comes home!” she says as you approach, giving you a wry smile. She’s maybe a foot shorter than you, horns curving up over the top of her head until they cross each other in a helix shape. Her hair is well cared for, unlike most purplebloods, set into narrow braids with translucent purple beads at the ends, and when she walks toward you they click against each other. She’s not interested in stealth. “Tell me you got my dough, Makara.” 

“I ain’t home in the least sense,” you say as you toss her a fat little coin purse that doesn’t jingle. “You think I’d be here without your shit?” 

“Course not,” she says as she catches it, neat as you please right out of the air. “You ain’t done me no wrong yet.” She turns back toward her little square house-thing, motioning you along. “Come the fuck in, I got some fresh for you to be up and movin’.” 

“Nah,” you say as you hold up your hands. “I ain’t got time to get trapped in your little social vortex, Nel-sis, I know what goes down soon’s I step inside.”

“Oho, you got that other door to knock on, ain’t you?” she snickers. “I can’t blame you but not at all, brother. I got you.” Nelena takes your little Jansport bookbag—lined heavy with plastic bags—and disappears inside for a few boring minutes. You don’t know about other districts much, but at least here trolls tend to the nocturnal side, like things supposedly were back on Alternia, and there’s not a motherfucker stirring this early in the evening apart from you and Nelena. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ lose this at his place, or get that shit roughed up, or it’s on you,” she growls as she presses the full bag back into your hands. “You my best, Makara.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” You exchange a quick slap of palms at the hip, and you shoulder the bag as you set off toward the other end of the district, Nelena yelling out _Have fun, motherfucker!_ after you. 

Equius lives alone too, but not because of any kind of prestige. He’s a huge motherfucker of a blueblood, only about as tall as Nelena but more than twice as wide, with thick long straight hair done up in a huge braid that goes down past his ass. He’s also nobody’s favorite except this little oliveblood honey who lives out in Queens, and you’ve never even seen her live and direct. It’s like there’s this perpetual stick up his ass, just this massive fucking nerd who won’t let himself say a single swear word or even hear one. In anybody else, that would get a troll called a wimp, a sad little sack of shit, and then maybe they’d get beaten until they got broke, but what makes Equius a survivor is his immense strength. As an adult he’s got it under control, as he demonstrates in not tearing the door off the fucking hinges when you bang on it and yell for him, but it’s definitely some kind of mutation, and definitely the reason nobody fucks with him. 

Well, nobody except you, that is. 

This is the other reason you come back to NA5. You set the bag down carefully in the corner, and then you’ve got him against the wall, rock solid body pinned under yours. For a second you just feel the tendons in his wrists flex under your hands, and his dark blue eyes regard you with barely masked disdain, and then you’re being thrown halfway across his hive, which means he’s pulling his punches. 

“Highblood,” he says tersely, rolling his shoulders. 

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” you sneer, pulling yourself up out of a pile of books. Motherfucker’s got tons of these things, loves to pore over them all day; your brief flight knocked you against one of the many bookshelves he’s built for his collection. You looked at the collection up close once, and from what you can tell, they’re all trashy books that people actually put in the goddamn garbage. “You ain’t hit me as hard as usual, motherfucker.” 

“I’m only waking up, highblood,” he says, coming over to pick up his books as delicately as he chooses his words. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you.” 

“So un-disappoint me,” you growl, reaching up to grab him by the collar of his tank top. “Or do I gotta sully your ears some fuckin’ more?”

The thing about Equius is that he’s a hot lay, all thick powerful muscle and a bulge to match; even when he’s holding back he knows how to make you hurt in all the right ways until you go blind with orgasm. Even with your natural immense strength you can’t hope to beat him, but it feels good to try, and after sex you feel noodle-boned and jelly-lunged. He’s got this first aid kit that you don’t know where the fuck he got it from, and you gripe at him while he dabs at scrapes, bites and cuts. You outright snap at him when he apologizes for the marks made by his broken teeth. 

“I’ll get you some water,” he says as he finishes off your last bandage—jesus, he really loved up on that shoulder today. You just snort as he gets up and walks through the hive in the nude like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and admire that body from this angle. 

The thing about Equius, though, is that he’s not enough. He still treats you like his better, which isn’t surprising given how much the hemospectrum gets drilled into your little noggins early the fuck on in NA5, just irritating and not at all what you want out of a kismesis. He apologizes for too many goddamn things. You want someone who’s willing to give you all they’ve fucking got to show you just how much they despise you, and with Equius coming back into the room with both the water and another apology for the state of your shoulder, you just don’t think you’re getting that. 

Dave Strider the human isn’t the answer, though, of that you’re sure. He can try all he wants, and at this point you definitely intend to see him again, but he’s never gonna be your main hatesqueeze. He just gets too damn happy, or something, like he gets so into the sex you’re left inflicting most of the pain. It’s a shame, really, because it’s like he’s some flipside Equius, a little insult machine with no off switch, no remorse, and no idea what restraint is. He’s a scrappy little dude, for sure. 

“I’m out,” you say abruptly, rising to your feet. You got your goods, you got your boots good and knocked, and now you got to get the fuck out of this prison before you possibly get sucked back in. (As far as you know, not really possible, but that paranoia never leaves you.) “Tell Nep I said what’s good.” 

“When I decipher what exactly that’s intended to mean, then of course, highblood,” he says as he sees you out the door, this stupid fucking formality he always insists on. You don’t know if that makes him a better or worse kismesis. 

You stop by Toy Tokyo on the way home despite it being out of your way, but you forgot yet again what hour they close and you’re too late. You kick their sign over and curse them out under your breath, before you sigh and set it back in place and go stand outside the fries place to call in your order. (You don’t fit in the tiny shop too well, especially on a Saturday night.) 

Your fries are long gone by the time you get home, though, and you’re left wiping the grease on the pole (much to other riders’ quiet dismay). You forget to do something about it when you open your crappy Dell laptop with the broken hinge, and now there’s fry grease on the keys, too. 

 

TG: i wrote a song about you today  
TG: i call it  
TG: that piece of shit didnt give me his number so i could bug him through text  
TG: im developing it into a full blown musical  
TG: but seriously making me wait to annoy you is balls  
TC: shit, bro, a musical? i better be getting some kind of compensation if i’m your motherfuckin muse.  
TG: no because it was your shittiness that inspired it  
TG: did you know spellcheck doesnt recognize the word shittiness  
TC: you’re just a goddamn education, ain’t you strider?  
TG: so listen i know you wanna get settled into your shitty microwave dinner  
TG: watch whatever troll show youre into  
TG: you know live the life after a long day of whatever the fuck it is you do in sunlight hours  
TC: i did tell your ass i was the most important troll you’d ever meet, probably.  
TG: nah you told me you were the meanest motherfucker id ever meet  
TG: probably  
TG: see i remember this shit  
TC: well then, i’m all and tellin you now, if you meet a motherfucker with horns more important than me you better check your goddamn pulse, because you might be in the realm of the dead, brother.  
TG: shit i liked that  
TG: i gotta applaud you for that one  
TG: so listen  
TC: i ain’t got ears, bro.  
TG: what  
TC: :o)  
TG: god you use the creepiest emotes  
TG: this is some to catch a criminal shit right here  
TG: and yet i still wanna hit again  
TC: i’m still hittin up the place in staten island, you ain’t gotta ask all polite to get your ass beat.  
TG: oh youre a laugh riot honey  
TG: im gonna fucking bury you in the ground one of these days watch  
TG: like extra special not even six feet deep  
TG: twelve feet for you  
TG: thats the shit im sporting for you  
TG: which brings me back to my actual point  
TG: you said you wanted to do this again  
TG: and by this i mean have crazy violent sex  
TC: hahaha  
TC: shit, motherfucker, you’re thirstier for that shit than a drunk in a bar.  
TG: did you mean a drunk in a  
TG: place with no alcohol whatsoever  
TG: fill in location here  
TG: is that what you meant because maybe youre just tired  
TC: where the fuck is it you get your live on?  
TG: im out in bedstuy  
TG: so thats why im asking ahead of time here see  
TG: im considerate  
TG: i know i live like ten million miles away

 

You lean back on your couch, bottle of Tropical Fantasy hanging loosely from your fingers as you consider his proposition. It’d be easier to just say tomorrow, because he really might as well live ten million miles away. You could make him come over, being as you’re fucking sick of the subway for the day, but you’re also kind of curious about his crib. You glance at one of the bandages Equius applied to you—and you rip it off. 

 

TC: i’m used to the goddamn mta. ain’t no shit if you can sit your ass down for like an hour or two and not go nowhere.  
TG: please im the king of waiting  
TG: technically the king of everything  
TG: but yo im waiting starting now  
TG: you gotta take the fuckin g but you cant say i didnt warn you already about how stupid it is to get out to my place  
TG: get off at bedford ill just meet you outside in like  
TG: ill be there when you are is the point  
TC: what a courteous motherfucker, all excited just to see my dumb ass.  
TG: fuck you man ok  
TG: if you get lost we cant fuck  
TG: dont play it like that  
TC: don’t get all touchy, brother, i’m only playin.  
TG: just fucking leave if youre gonna

 

You close your laptop with a chuckle, wiping your hands a few more times on the couch before you get up. You head to the ablution—the bathroom, you’ve been out of the district long enough, c’mon now Makara—you head to the bathroom and undo all of Equius’s hard work, until every scab and bruise is uncovered, ready to be reopened and deepened. And you head out. 

Strider’s waiting for you just like he said he would be, hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. You just nod at each other as you emerge from the stairs, and he starts walking, clearly meaning for you to follow. 

His place is smaller than yours, but the shit inside is better curated, as in with an actual sense of style and what goes together. You smirk as he closes the door behind you; this dude is full of flipsides. “As you can see, I don’t live in a fucking garbage heap,” Dave says as he pulls off his hoodie. “And I thought it might be nicer to repeat the other night’s escapades in a sweet setting like my apartment instead of that mountain of junk food wrappers you call a living room.” 

“I don’t give a shit about nice, little man, I just answered your goddamn booty call,” you say as you toe off your shoes. “I ain’t need nothin’ but your clothes off.” 

“Well then, I guess we can skip the pleasantries,” Dave says with a grin, already peeling off his shirt. “Shit, man, I know with this hatesex shit you’re supposed to keep the compliments at a minimum, but that was probably the hottest—shit, it was flat out the _best_ sex I’ve ever had.” He’s leading you by the wrist into the apartment, you’re guessing to his bedroom. 

“The best, huh?” Dave’s bed is huge, easily a queen, and you flop back on it just to experience the fucking luxury. You don’t know what it is he does for a living, but you wanna guess it’s something cushy. 

“Well, yeah.” He’s down to his underwear, this skimpy little pair of red briefs with white trim that makes his human junk look extra big, and he’s straddling your waist already. “I mean, I don’t know how it was for you, but—”

“It was aiight.” You shrug against the sheets, and run your fingers lazily over Dave’s hairy thigh. 

“I—it was just—” Dave goes tomatoey in the face. “ _Aiight?!”_ He grabs you by the collar of your T-shirt, bending down in a quick snap until his face is mere inches from yours. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“I’m just sayin’,” you say as you push him off with ease. “Like, you got the zest, bro, but you ain’t know what it means to make a brother bleed.” 

“So you’re saying I wasn’t enough of a fucking sadist, huh?” he retorts, pulling himself back up almost immediately. “You sayin’ I was too _nice_ , is that it?” 

“Yeah, stupid-ass,” you laugh, a single push to his forehead sending him careening back. “I mean, don’t take it wrong, we can do that weird ass thing again, I did like that. I’m just sayin’ don’t get all excited about it like it was the be-all end-all of black fucks.” You can’t even interpret the face he’s making at those last words, so you just gloss right over it. “I mean, look, you probably doing better than other humans at it.” 

“Fuck you,” he spits, rolling back your way to get on top of you for a third time. 

“That’s the idea,” you cackle, right before Dave shoves your shirt up and into your face. He’s already biting at your chest with his blunt human teeth, the canines just barely sharp enough to give a little sting, and as you wrestle your shirt off your arms you feel like you have to give him credit. He’s really fucking trying, here. 

It doesn’t take long between the two of you to get the rest of your clothes off, Dave treating it like a competition in who can be more vicious about every little action. He’s going a little overboard, but you think it’s funny, for one, and for two it’s actually pretty hot, so you humor him. 

He pauses, fingers ghosting over the injuries left by Equius. You start to sit up, but Dave pushes you back, growling like he’s a fucking cartoon character. “So you want me to fuck you, huh, Makara?” 

“I ain’t averse to it, no,” you say with a bemused little puff of air. “If you wanna show me what you got—”

His fingers find your nook first, just to explore, as he kisses you brutal and hard. You were maybe a little wet before but Strider’s forcefulness has got you gushing, and his fingers slip in easy and smooth. The head of his dick nudges against your nook, not quite pushing, fucking teasing you. You can just barely feel it and your nook feels tight and sore from wanting the longer he holds out on you. You growl into his mouth as your bulge tries to wrap around his dick, tries to pull it inside, but he just pulls his hips up and away, just kisses you harder, one hand curling around one of your horns like a handle to wrench your head around. 

“Stick that shit _in_ me, or don’t you know what to do with it, motherfucker?” you snarl as you force him to break away. He just smirks, and you realize he’s finally gotten a rise out of you, good and proper. 

“Sure I do,” he says, sitting back to grab his dick and drag the tip up and down the slit of your nook. You don’t even understand the _point_ of that. “But see, here you want me to be like, this animal motherfucker, all brutalizing you and shit, right? And that’s fun, but what I want is to just piss you off.” He laughs with a toss of his head. “That’s what’s funny to _me.”_

For a few seconds you just stare at him. This is the kind of shit you could never fucking _pay_ Equius to say, Equius the born-again pure Alternian troll, and here’s this ignorant-ass human, all weird dusky-pale skin and banana-colored hair, showing himself up as a textbook example of a kismesis. 

Then Dave is plunging inside you, thick cock spreading you apart wide, faster than your standard tapering bulge in its immediate girth. The way he fucks is a surprise, too, hard violent thrusts that take you from feeling _spread_ to _split open_. He grabs onto your shoulders for leverage, face hot and red as he buries it in your chest, and in return you drag your claws in even redder lines up his back, huffing through your teeth. 

“S-so lemme guess,” he pants as he props himself up on your ribs, hips slowing down as he tries to focus on talking, “this still ain’t enough for you still, right?” 

“Don’t tell me that’s all you got,” you sneer, as breathless as you are with your ankles crossed behind Strider’s waist. 

“Shit no,” he whispers back. A surprisingly strong hand slides up your chest and onto your neck, pressing around your throat until you can’t use it no more. He’s still fucking your nook, force coming back into his hips now, and as you try to choke out a laugh past his fingers, his other hand comes off your chest and joins the first. The weight of his upper body now rests where your breath used to go; it doesn’t take long for your body to go floppy-limp under him, one arm flailing up to try (and fail) to grab at him. When Dave starts talking again you can’t quite make it out, just his full bright pink lips as they move, before they come down to meet yours and suck the last of the air out of you in a kiss. 

He lets go and you take a deep, wheezing breath that stabs you right in the lungs. You don’t even give him a chance to talk more shit, just careen straight up so fast your head spins even faster, grab him by the face and return that last kiss until you taste his blood, warm and coppery. His nails dig into your arms until you can fucking feel it, his cock driving into you with a frantic urgency; your bulge curls and spasms against his stomach, not one part of your body able to focus on much else. 

After he comes you still haven’t, but it doesn’t take much longer when he fucking dives into your nook and eats his own goddamn jizz out of it, which might be the most depraved thing you’ve ever seen a human do. 

You don’t tell him that yeah, this time was a fuck of a lot more memorable, but you do laugh at how quick he runs out of the room cursing about fucking towels. And when the bed and the both of you are cleaned up you do stay the night, making fun of each other’s tastes in TV programming. 

You put Equius out of your thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope i provided you with a quality chapter! as always it really pleases me to see everybody's thoughts and reactions and predictions, so do that please ahh i love you guys


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the joke is he used to date sollux

“God but I'm so ready to get the fuck outta here,” you sigh as you lean against the wall, trying to keep a watchful eye on your section of the restaurant. “I'm taking like, one more table and I swear that's it."

“From your mouth to God's ears,” your coworker mutters next to you. “I'm not taking even one mo—whoops.” One of her tables flags her down with a scribbling motion on the palm of his hand, and she nods his way before heading off to get his check. 

You hate working at Applebee's. Your manager never ceases finding shit to bitch you out for, and you're sure you get all the neediest, most cantankerous customers in Brooklyn in your section every shift, not to mention the nosiest. You can't even count how many times you've fielded questions on your ethnicity and complexion, and people asking if you bleached your hair. You got your hair texturized a while ago, but it's starting to grow out. 

It's been a week since the last time you saw Gamzee in person, though he still talks to you on Pesterchum, about inane shit mostly. He thinks he's good at rapping, but his rhymes are some of the weirdest shit you've ever heard, and you can't tell if you like it or not. Neither can you tell if he's interested in fucking you ever again, although given the total lack of sexual content in his messages, you wanna lean toward no. 

You're trying to put him out of your mind as you collect a few plates from a table that seems to be winding down, when you hear a deep voice ask, “Is this a troll-friendly dining establishment you got here?” 

Your head whips around and he's there, towering over the hostess with his hands in his pockets. Then you see him point at you, and he says, “Where does a motherfucker sit to get serviced by that one right there?”

To your supreme dismay the hostess leads Gamzee right into your section, the massive troll sauntering behind her and giving you a smile you don't trust. He slides into the booth with a menu and you stomp over, your ticketbook half-crushed in your grip. “Yo, I heard those sizzly shits were the bomb at this particular location,” Gamzee says with that same smile, eyes hooded. “What word you got on them?” 

“I got the word that how in the _hell_ did you find out where I work?” you hiss, trying to not attract attention from your coworkers. “I _know_ I never told you it was this one.” 

“I extrapolated,” he drawls, “from the factoids you given me about what company it is you are gainfully employed by, and from havin’ been to your abode for carnal relations. _That’s_ how.” Then he shrugs, and adds, “Or maybe I’m just a serendipitous motherfucker done walked into just the right Applebee’s.” 

“Yeah, right,” you mutter. “So are you gonna sit here and fuckin’ harangue me or are you actually here to order food like a normal person?” 

“Yeah, gimme one o’ these sizzly sons o’ bitches,” he says, tapping the page with one claw. 

“You’re gonna have to pick one,” you say after he just looks at you for a good solid 30 seconds. 

“Man, why don’t you help me pick?” Your dignity makes a break for it as one of Gamzee’s arms snakes around your waist and yanks you into the booth, squeezing a yelp out of you. You manage to only sit on the edge of the booth, one ass cheek hanging mid-air, but you can’t get his death grip fingers off your side. “Gimme the staff recommendation, motherfucker.” 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” you hiss as you pry at his fingers anyway, completely in vain. 

“Ordering, what’s it look like? Tell me what to order, I’m fuckin’ starving.” 

“The... The Bourbon Street steak,” you say with a defeated sigh, holding your ticketbook aloft even as he slowly pulls you further into the booth. The coworker you’d been standing with earlier starts walking over with an intense stride, but you catch her eye and shake your head, hoping that’ll tell her you’ve got this under control. Which you don’t, but you feel like nobody else should have to deal with this shit. 

That, and a part of you doesn’t want to piss him off so badly he doesn’t want to see you again. 

“That’s the shit I want, then,” he agrees, and you obediently write his order. You follow the usual script, as if you weren’t basically strapped against a giant troll who knows what the inside of your ass feels like, and ask him if he wants a drink, to which he answers he wants a sangria. Between your teeth you ask if maybe he’d prefer a non-alcoholic beverage, but he just laughs and says, “It won’t hurt me none, takes more than a little glass like what you got in the picture to get toxins goin’ in me proper.” 

His hand starts to relax and you think he’s gonna let you go to put his order in, so you’re already moving to get up—and then his grip tightens again, and he plants a big wet kiss just under your ear. You can feel the smile in his lips and it sends way more voltage downstairs than you expect or want to happen at work, but before you can protest he’s gently pushing you out of the booth. “I’m hungry, motherfucker, get that shit for me toot sweet,” he says. You’re shocked he doesn’t slap you on the ass. 

“I’m getting Manjula,” your coworker says, jogging over to you as you walk away from the booth; Manjula is your manager. “Are you okay?” 

“Who, me? I’m fucking daisy. Don’t get Manjula, okay?” You both reach the kitchen. “Look, I know this guy. I’m just gonna get him his food, he’ll eat and go away, and that’ll be the end of it.” 

“Dave—”

“Jesus, Ellie, I said it’s fine!” you snap, and then sigh and start up the apology machine when her features get all afflicted with the upset. You find yourself doing this a lot. 

A few minutes later you deliver his drink with some level of trepidation, but he just smiles and says thank you, takes a sip and looks away with a blank face. Somehow that unnerves you more than anything else he’s done so far this evening. You’re still suspicious, though, and when you deliver his stupid sizzling steak you put down the whole mess a little harder than necessary, and lean in to whisper, “The hell are you playing at, Makara?” 

“Playin’?” He gives you this infuriating expression of innocence as he starts to carve into the steak. “Ain’t no game, bro, I’m just here to eat this nice-ass food and enjoy the atmosphere.” 

“Atmosphere my ass, you came to my place of work to fucking harass me in front of my goddamn coworkers! That crosses a line, you fuck.” You jam your finger into the tabletop for emphasis. “Promise me you’re just gonna eat your goddamn food, pay your bill, and leave.” 

“Motherfucker, I can _smell_ how much you don’t want me to leave,” he says with this sly grin, propping his chin on the heels of his hands. “In fuckin’ fact, I think if it weren’t for the fact that you ain’t want your li’l coworkers over there to see you incapacitated, or at least see what you got goin’ on south o’ the belt, you would fuckin’ love it,” and he leans in closer to whisper this part, “if I put your face on this table and fucked you right here in your place of employ for everybody and their momma to see.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks and for a moment you’re actually picturing it, Gamzee bending his knees behind you to make up for your height difference. You can feel your cock twitch at the mere memory of what his bulge feels like inside you. “Fuck no,” you say instead, whacking the poor abused tabletop. 

“You don’t like me no more?” Gamzee mock-pouts before bringing a bite of burning hot steak to his lips. It doesn’t seem to faze him as he chews, despite the fact that it’s got to be like a million degrees hotter than his core temperature. 

“Jesus, Gamzee, what the fuck do you want me to say? That I don’t ever wanna see you again?” He just chews, contemplating you with half-lidded eyes. “I’m just saying, like, leave me alone _here.”_

“Why, you ashamed of knockin’ boots with a troll?” Gamzee cuts himself another bite. 

“What—no, I—what?” 

“That cuts me deeply, Strider. I ain’t got no shame gettin’ my hatelove on for a gossamer motherfucker such as yourself,” he says after swallowing his bite. 

“Hatelove—?”

He loads a bunch of mushrooms and onions onto his spoon. “Catch, bro.” And he catapults the spoonful right into your face. 

You feel like you could have forgiven everything else, you think as you lunge forward and grab him by the horns, slamming his face into the table just by his sizzler plate. Or trying to, anyway, because before his head actually makes impact he sits back up and spins on the booth seat to kick you in the stomach like a goddamn kangaroo. You go sliding across the floor on your back, slamming into the legs of a proper table across the aisle. 

“You piece of shit,” you wheeze as you try to get up. He’s getting up slowly, like this isn’t a big deal or anything, and strolls over to you with that dumbass smile you wanna punch off his face. “This is where I work, you can’t just—”

“Sure I can, motherfucker. Customer’s always right, ain’t that the sayin’?” He helps you up, only to spin you around and push your upper body down onto the surface of an occupied table. (You’re glad it’s been pre-bussed, though the tabletop still hurts against your face.) You expect him to press up behind you now, just like he’d talked about earlier, and you screw your eyes shut—only to feel nothing. 

Ellie helps to pull you upright, and when you get oriented again you see that Gamzee’s gone, and oh, fuck. Here comes Manjula. And she looks mad, not worried. 

“David, I want to see you in my office when your head’s clear,” she says, words strained like she wants to say a whole lot of bad shit right now. “Ellie, take him to get some water and get cleaned up, please.” Ellie nods and leads you off by the elbow, while Manjula apologizes profusely to the customers disturbed by your little altercation. 

“Where’d he go?” you ask as Ellie sits you down in the back room and pushes a glass of water in your hand. “I didn’t see him leave...” 

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Ellie says as she leans against the wall, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Manjula is _mad_ , though, wow.” 

“The hell do you mean, don’t worry about that right now? Ellie, would you fucking tell me where he went?” You sip your water aggressively. 

“I don’t know, he just walked out the door like the Lone Ranger, and when someone ran to the door to try and keep him in the store for the cops, he wasn’t even on the sidewalk anymore.” She spreads her fingers wide. “Poof. Gone.” 

You don’t have long to think on that before Manjula bustles into the back room, dismissing Ellie before gesturing that you should follow her to the manager’s office. Inside the office you both sit down, and she steeples her fingers. 

“Are you feeling okay, Dave?” she asks, her only attempt so far to sound friendly. “How’s your head.” 

“Pounding,” you mutter. “But I’m fine.” 

“I’m glad. Because I can’t have any more of this. You understand that, right?” 

“Any more of—any more of _what_ , exactly?” You gesture widely, trying not to raise your voice. “Have my troll customers ever thrown me on a table before? Is that what we can’t have any more of, Manjula? Because that happens _so_ often it’s a wonder I’m still goddamn alive, right?” 

“Don’t take that tone with me,” she snaps. “The fact of the matter is you’re a slipshod employee, and now that I have a few promising applications, this is the last straw.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” You jump to your feet, but she does the same, managing to be intimidating even being a good ten inches shorter than you. 

“I know you knew that troll, and if you’re going to be a crappy employee _and_ bring violence into my location, you can forget about it. So no, Dave, I’m _not_ ‘fucking kidding you’ because you’re fired.” 

For a moment you just stand there, fists shaking at your sides, trying not to fucking explode. Breathe in, breathe out. Be cool. “Fine. Play it your way, Manjula, this job fucking sucked anyway.” 

“You can come collect your last paycheck in a few days, and then I don’t want to see you in here again, even as a customer,” Manjula says coolly, arms folded. 

“Whatever,” you say with a shrug. “Peace out.” You turn toward the door, and you think of so many things to say as you leave, so many zingers that would be the verbal equivalent of walking away from an explosion, but none of them come out. You just walk out and go home, ignoring all your tables now that you have no obligation to them. You don’t even say goodbye to your coworkers. 

You tell yourself as you drink way too much that night that you’ll find another job soon. You tell yourself this isn’t regression, either, because in good times you manage a beer after work now and again and you’re fine. You’re fine. You’re not an alcoholic. 

You wake up the next morning feeling sore and not remembering falling asleep, though the empties strewn around you kind of tell the tale. You leave your computer alone, and ignore your phone, even as it buzzes itself right off the coffee table, and just mindlessly watch Kitchen Nightmares for a few hours. You’re glad, at least, that last night you burned through your entire supply of alcohol, because you’re too smelly and tired to go out and get more, and you’re honestly afraid of what would happen if you had more. 

You end up spending the _whole_ day watching reality TV and eating frozen dinners; you accidentally kick your phone under the couch and you don’t have the energy to fish it out. When you finally do sit down at your computer, you don’t go online, unless you count playing Team Fortress 2 as online. The server you choose isn’t one any of your friends know. 

Of course, you know you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself eventually. And you know you have to get online, too, where you know Gamzee is waiting, probably wanting to talk about mundane shit like he _didn’t_ just get you fired. Part of you wants to talk to him like everything’s fine, too, wants to just chalk it up to weird troll shit you don’t understand and invite him over to fuck you. 

Instead you shower and head out. Your metrocard is unlimited so you spend the day bouncing from neighborhood to neighborhood, window-shopping here and snacking there, eventually heading into Manhattan to just walk uptown. And yes, you spend the _entire_ day out. When it starts to get dark you’re tempted more than you’d like to admit by the slew of bars you pass, but you keep your resolve to stay sober and keep walking. You head into Morningside Park and jump around on rocks whispering “Parkour! Parkour!” to yourself, and then when you’re sure you don’t see anyone around you do try one of the few tricks you know against the wall. You do okay, but you’re still glad nobody was around to see that ungainly mess. 

Eventually you climb out of the park and head toward the train, night well and truly fallen. It’s midnight; you should really go home. 

So you head uptown instead. 

In the back of your mind, you know where you’re headed. Maybe when you set out this morning, you knew where you intended to wind up, even. It doesn’t matter that you tell yourself you’re totally just riding the rails because you don’t feel like going home yet, and there’s something comforting about just digging down into your hoodie and headphones in the corner of a nearly-empty car in the dark. The train pulls out of the tunnel and heads up onto the trestle as you near Dyckman St. 

You hit Marble Hill and you get off. You’re just not in the mood to go all the way to the end of the line, that’s the issue here, you tell yourself. You have no reason to head toward that wide stretch between here and the 4 train, you just feel like it. You’re in the mood for that. 

You stand outside Gamzee’s building for twenty minutes, lighting up and sitting on the siamese pipe coming out of its side. It’s not that you expect him to come out, but you’ve run out of excuses for what you’re doing here. You want to see him, ask him what the actual fuck, maybe beat the fuck out of him, or at least make an honest effort. You kind of want him to kiss you. Maybe. No, you definitely do. 

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t make an appearance, and you head toward the 4 train this time. (It’ll get you home faster.) You don’t even feel frustrated when you have to swipe four fucking times to get in, and just hunker down on the furthest bench on the empty platform, headphones on full blast. 

As the train leaves Burnside, a pair of huge feet in ratty slip-on sneakers walks into your line of vision, and your whole body jerks as you look up and yank your headphones down around your neck. Gamzee towers over you, leaning against the pole with his knees bent because he can’t actually stand up straight in a train car without putting his horns through the ceiling. You stammer out his name. 

“Yo,” is all he says in return. “You ain’t been online, bro, got a motherfucker all worried like maybe I hurt you too badly. I didn’t really wanna get extrapolatin’ on which hospital they would have sent you to.” 

“You got me _fired_ , you piece of utter _shit!”_ You reach straight up with both hands, grabbing the ceiling pole over the seats to swing out and finally return Gamzee’s kangaroo kick to the gut. Without space to move he staggers back and falls into the seats opposite you. You drop to the floor. “I don’t have a job because of you!” 

“If you need money, alls you gotta do is ask,” he says with a shrug. “I ain’t mean to make you lose your job, just have a little fun is all.” 

“Fun? You call embarrassing me in front of the people I work—worked, past fucking tense—with and throwing me on a table fun?” You shrug out of your hoodie and hook one side of your headphones into the armpit of a sleeve before tossing it onto the seats behind you. 

“Shit, yeah, that’s what this whole deal is all about,” he laughs. “Come on, Dave.” 

“Lemme tell you what’s fucking _fun_. What’s fun is me beating the shit out of you, right now, so get the fuck up!” You roll your shoulders. “You told me you want me to make you fuckin’ bleed, so here the fuck I am, ready to make good on that.” 

“You try real hard, I give you that.” He doesn’t prepare at all, just launches himself off the seats at you. You manage to dodge, heading down the aisle of the empty car to swing yourself around the middle pole by the middle doors. “And I ain’t denyin’ I got some kinda pitch feelings bubblin’ up in my consciousness for you.” You swing again to hurl yourself at him feet first, but he manages to just catch you by the ankles and slam you down so hard all the breath rushes out of you. “It’s fun, you and me, but like I said—you ain’t know what it means to make a brother bleed.” 

He lets you get up, and maybe he thinks you’re beat. But you look up and shoot him a hard glare, before you head down to the other end of the car. “Yo, Dave, don’t be forgettin’ your shit,” he calls out, cupping his hands around his cheeks. “You ain’t gotta leave or nothin’, bruh.” 

And you race back his way, swinging from middle pole to middle pole, feinting down like you mean to knock his feet out from under him. You see him heading into a squat, hands out to stop you again, and you swing on the last pole to throw you up toward the pole that runs the length of the ceiling. Your feet hook under his head as the train starts to jerk to a halt for the next stop, yank up until he’s off balance, and then you let yourself fall until you’re sitting on his chest. In the basement fight club he’s got all the advantages, but you were fucking raised learning to use different trains to your advantage in a fight—and he doesn’t fucking fit, a giant in the seven dwarves’ cottage. 

From here he could totally just get up wearing you like a scarf, but you’re not about to let that happen; you rain punches on his jaw, right, left, right, until he spits blood from the inside of his cheek catching on his teeth. “That don’t count,” he laughs with a cough when you smear your thumb over his lip and show him the purple blood. “Motherfucker, I _told_ you, I think it’s cute that you try—”

Your knees pin his upper arms to his sides as the doors close, and you lean down to swallow his words in your own mouth, a deep and fevered kiss. At first you can feel the surprise in his body, but it doesn’t last long at all before he kisses back, his hands curling around your calves. The train chugs forward and for a fleeting moment you can feel yourself losing out to your sex drive, blood already beginning its journey south. 

So you bite. You bite down deep, until your jaw aches, until it feels like you should be ripping Gamzee’s lower lip completely off. Cool blood wells up around your teeth and back into Gamzee’s mouth until he starts to choke on it and sputter, but you hold on a few seconds longer, rolling his bitten lip between both of yours. 

Finally he forces the both of you to sit up, coughing as he finally clears his throat of his own blood. You get unseated by his arms pulling out from between your knees, so you pull yourself up onto the seat instead and start to put your hoodie back on, slinging your headphones back around your neck. 

“Shit,” he says as he dabs a finger to his mouth, wincing, and holds the finger out. “So you _did_ make a motherfucker bleed.” He grins at you, wiping at the blood on his chin, and after a moment, you return it at last, albeit with a snort. “C’mere, bro, you look a fucking mess.” And he reaches out to wipe your face, too. 

You end up transferring to head back uptown. He takes you back to his place, and after all of that you expect sex, but instead he lays you out gently on his bed, stomach-down as he straddles your ass. He massages all the aches out of your body, and shit, you’re confused because this seems like the opposite of hate-romance, but you’re so fucking tired you’ll take it. Maybe it’s somehow the most fucked up part of the quadrant; maybe Gamzee will explain it later. You bring up sex in a sleepy whisper as he slides under the covers next to you, which is met with the response _We can fuck in the morning._

The last thing you see as you drift off is Gamzee texting, and the last thing you hear is him saying, “Too bad, motherfucker. That’s how it’s gonna be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok thats about all i got in me, whew! i wrote like 2/3 of that all in one night, but yeah, tada, the tale of how gamzee and dave met
> 
> even though it's over i love hearing all your feelings and thoughts and whatever so please!! i have work tonight it would be gr8 to come home to comments in the morning! c: and i hope you enjoyed this part of nukestuck


End file.
